House of Cards
by OrangeSnapdragon
Summary: Harry is dead. Ron is in a coma, and Hermione's just trying to piece the world back together. Ginny's depression and Draco's return are making things difficult however. RHr. Possible GWDM. Hermionecentric.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no moneyoff this fanfic.

AN: Yes, it's written in present tense. But I couldn't imagine writing it any other way. There's an important AN at the bottom, so make sure you read it. If you read this, please review. Unelss you ahted it- then please leave me to my ignorance.

HPHPHP

She likes to take her lunches in the wizarding tavern about a block away from the Ministry. When the noon bell strikes, she rises with everyone else and is hustled along to Helga's Goblet. She always takes the table in the corner in the back so she can see the entire room- a paranoia bred of the war. Still, sometimes she manages to forget all that and people watches instead. The liveliness and noise of the rush hour crowd reminds her of the Gryffindor common room. She even takes work along, and it's an almost perfect emulation of part of her schooling she never thought she'd miss but does.

Almost perfect. If it was perfect, two men would be sitting with her, laughing and joking and drinking and avoiding their own work in favor of pestering her about hers.

One of those men is in a magical coma at St. Mungo's; the other is dead.

It doesn't do to dwell though, and Hermione scratches a note in the margin of a long paper about funds needed to rebuild parts of Hogsmeade. She isn't really part of any department in the ministry, most of it collapsed during the war. What's arisen in its place is a hodge-podge of competent witches and wizards who are trying to set the rest of the world right before remodeling the government. It's hectic and unorganized and Hermione already has more power than a twenty-year old should, but it seems to be working. So Hermione spends lunch after lunch and night after night reading reports, filing papers, and signing orders in an effort to recreate something she'd never heard of but a scant decade before.

She's busy, and so she always eats lunch alone. Everyone's gotten used to this by now, but sometimes a stranger to the tavern that she knows from her life in school will spot her and approach her. They'll speak, exchanging sympathies for losses and delights that the other one is alive and inevitably that will lead to reminiscing about the old days in school when no one thought it would have gotten as bad as it did with a quarter of the wizarding world dead along with countless Muggles- with great swaths of England destroyed, with anarchy and chaos and betrayal and hate.

On those occasions, Hermione normally returns to her office in tears.

Today is different though. Today she does the approaching rather than being approached. It surprises her, especially considering that the person is someone that she will not have too many fond memories to reminisce over with.

She spots him, thin and shockingly ragged, sulking by the door and nursing a mug of Ogden's own.

"Malfoy!" she shouts above the din, and her voice catches him like a hook. His blonde head swivels towards her and his gray eyes widen then narrow. He is hesitant, but slowly winds his way towards her at an encouraging nod.

"Granger," he nods coolly, a few steps away from her chair.

"Malfoy," she nods back, and suddenly realizes that there is really nothing to say to him. "I thought you were in France," she blurts out.

He cringes at her words but forces himself to nod. "I was. I just returned yesterday. My mother died, and there are some…finances that need to be sorted out."

Obviously not many finances, Hermione thinks, judging by his appearance. He looks worse than Professor Lupin ever did, but she nods like she believes him all the same. "I heard about your mother. My condolences."

It sounds cold even to her own ears, but what's she supposed to say to the boy who tormented her and her friends for six long years and fought against them until the last possible minute? She doesn't trust him, and she certainly doesn't like him. But a loss is a loss all the same.

He deliberately avoids her eyes when she says that. Something, she notes, he's been doing ever since she called him over.

"Listen," he says suddenly, as if the words are a surprise to him. He takes a swig of Ogden's, bracing himself, and puts the mug down on the table before finishing his thought. "About Weasley . . . I'm. . . sorry."

She could raise an eyebrow and ask, "Which Weasley?" because none of them emerged unscathed and one is dead. But she knows which one he is talking about- Ron. Ron whose bedside she sits at every Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday, praying that he'll get up and knowing deep down that he probably won't.

"It's alright," she mutters, she's gotten experienced at fighting back tears, "It wasn't your fault."

It's true, it wasn't his fault. It was his father. Hermione doesn't offer her apologies for Lucius' death, though she's much more at fault for him dying than Draco is for Ron being in a coma.

Lucius Malfoy deserved it. That's the difference.

They are silent then. Hermione sitting but having the advantage- staring impassively up at Malfoy from her oak and paper throne. He is pale, paler even then when they were at school together, and very clearly nervous and uncomfortable. It's an odd change from the Malfoy she knew, this thin figure with its hunched shoulders, furtive eyes, and unsteady hands that sketch an endless parade of jittery half-figures.

She doesn't wonder what happened to him. It's the war that happened to him, the war that happened to them all.

She doesn't wonder what happened to him during the war, she'd rather not know.

His head cocks and he bites his lip. "I should be going then," he tells his feet, the table, the door- anything but Hermione's eyes.

Hermione nods, "Bye then," and he is off- skittering through the crowd of chairs and tables and customers. But before he reaches the door, she calls out in impish impromptu, "It was nice seeing you again Malfoy!"

His body snaps to a halt and for a moment she thinks she sees some of the old Malfoy pride in the lift of his chin and the set of his mouth as he half turns back to face her. She readies herself for a sarcastic, sneering remark, anticipating with relish this brief return to school-day normalcy. But, no, it is gone- an unconscious reflex to her voice. He is avoiding her eyes again, his restless hands stuffed into the worn pockets of his patched and shabby robes. Two more casualties of the war: Malfoy pride and Malfoy money.

There is a pause, brief, hesitant, delicate and unsure. He stares at her elbow. Then, then, loud enough so she can hear him across the room, "Yeah, yeah, it was."

Her words, which had been hanging challenge-like in testify in of the bar, swish away in relief. The challenge is answered, courtesy appeased, and if she's not mistaken, his eyes flitted towards hers, just briefly, on the tail end of his answer. It's too quick for her to be sure, already his entire body is turning away, walking out of the door. His bearing, she likes to imagine, is just a little straighter.

He is gone now, and the roar of tavern talk rushes in to fill the void of their awkward conversation with an unholy glee. She sighs, bends her neck down, returns to her work.

HPHPHP

When she returns home that night, she is quiet. Doesn't want to wake the babe up, now does she?

"Hello," she says softly, by way of greeting, to Ginny.

Ginny's eyes flick dully towards Hermione than back to stare glumly at the fire. "Hello," she says back.

The girl, young woman really- only a year younger than Hermione and a mother as well- is sitting neatly on their flat's comfortably shabby couch. Her arms hang despondently by her sides. Their burns, still red and shiny, are hidden by the long sleeves of the old school robes she's taken to wearing. A book, opened but unread, lies on her lap. Hermione hopes desperately that this is not how Ginny spent her day.

She settles into the chair near the fire so that she can face Ginny. "You'll never guess who I saw today," she says, lightly, cheerfully.

Another dull flicker of the eyes and Ginny's chapped lips move, "Who?"

Hermione pretends she doesn't hear the listlessness, the lack of caring in Ginny's voice and is silent for a moment-trying to drum up and air of hushed expectance. It fails, and Hermione bites back a sigh. "Draco Malfoy!" she cries dramatically anyway.

"Oh."

Oh. That's it for a response, and Hermione thinks exasperatedly, 'That's all I'll get from her tonight, might as well get some work done,' and pulls her briefcase open.

But as is increasingly common, Hermione is wrong. Ginny is speaking, softly, blankly, emotionlessly, but speaking all the same.

"I saw Harry today."

Saw Harry, which means Ginny went to his tombstone, the gray monolith up on the hill by Godric's Hollow. Hermione drops her case of papers and flies across the room, grasps Ginny's hands, the whiteness of them a mockery to the redness of Ginny's arms.

"Ginny," breathes Hermione, and her eyes are filling with tears. "Don't-don't do this. Don't do this to yourself."

Ginny gazes stonily at Hermione's suddenly tear-stained face and the rock crumbles, the façade is shattered, and Ginny is weeping too. Clutching each other tight, the two sob. 'Third night this month,' Hermione thinks, 'Oh Harry, what have you done to us?'

A thin, high wailing breaks their sorrow, and Ginny leaps to her feet. Hermione offers a brief prayer in honor of motherhood as Ginny's face has taken on a resolve, a purpose, in the pursuit of maternal duties. The redhead rushes out of the room, but returns quickly, a large, crying bundle in her arms.

Jamie Lee Potter, red haired and with her father's eyes, one year old and hasn't said a word, can't crawl let alone take the first few steps she should be at this age. But still, the last remaining blood member of the Potter wizarding family. Hermione knows that this initial slowness is all just a stage, that the baby will grow out of it. Won't she?

Even so, Hermione is thankful for the smile Jamie brings to Ginny's face. Rare and shy and radiant, Ginny coos down at her daughter.

'Oh Harry,' Hermione thinks again.

HPHPHP

AN: I just realized that if I was truly evil, I would leave this as a oneshot. However, this is a story, there will be more. I just need to figure out what exactly. there are ideas, but they need to be put into some kind coherency. Also I NEED A BETA. Badly. I would love it if said beta would be willing to put up with every hare-brained story I dream up. (For a list of a few of these ideas you may be subjected to, check my profile.) However, if you find yourself only willing to beta this story, I will still love you and heap you with loads of gifts and affection. In short: Beta. Needed. Now.Please.

Right, I realize that several of you are probably concerned by the OOCness of said characters. They will slowly revert to their more canon personalities, that'spart of the point of this fic. Bear in mind that they've just survived a large war wherea lot of people they loved died, and thata fw of teh more OOC ones have lost everything and/or been tortured to an kinch of their life. Pleasant. Don't ask me why, I love the characters, it's the plotbunny that hates them. Er.

I hope you enjoyed, please review.


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